


haha, i'm sorry

by indications



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indications/pseuds/indications
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You are a tool again, but you're the one that I've chosen</i><br/><i>I'm not familiar with this type of devotion</i><br/><i>I used to be a pimp without emotion but now you got me simpin'</i><br/><i>and singing to Frank Ocean and thinkin' 'bout you</i><br/><i>Ooh no no no, I been thinkin' 'bout you, ooh no no no</i><br/><i>I been thinkin' 'bout you</i><br/><i>Do you think about me?</i><br/>- Troll Socrates</p>
            </blockquote>





	haha, i'm sorry

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’ve never had a fling. You do not do ‘flings’. Flings are for dumb wrigglers who don’t know what romance is. Flings are for launching objects into space. Flings are bullshit. 

It is not a fling. 

For one, the word makes Sollux snort derisively, which is a sound he already makes way more often than he needs to. Practically every other inhalation is an expression of distaste and you’ll be damned if you give him any more fodder for that shit than necessary. For another, you’re positive that part of having a fling is actually giving half a fuck about the romantic aspect of it and you don’t think Sollux has a romantic cartilage nub in his body that isn’t reserved for Aradia (which is fine, really, because the combined product of the little romantic inclination he _has_ couldn’t coax a smile out of a sopor-addled idiot. You have to wonder how she finds him charming). 

Besides, when you have real, actual romance in mind, you can’t be bothered to waste your time cooing at lispy self-important toolbags. You’re a pretty big deal, damnit, and if the metaphor didn’t grate on your yelp sponge like swallowing gravel you’d say you had a shitload of irons in the fire. 

Not that that precludes you fucking your best friend. 

No, ‘fucking your best friend’ doesn’t work any more than calling it a fling does. Nobody but your pan-rotted moirail has used the phrase ‘best friend’ in sincerity since they grew into their grub nubs, and honestly it’s not even _fucking_ so much as. What can you call it. The asshole you spent most of your wriggling putting up with sometimes comes over with the express purpose of eating you out and still manages to be smug about it, and you can’t actually complain even though you feel like you’re doing _him_ a favor. 

There’s a word for that, right? 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and even though you know better, sometimes you think you are having a fling. 

It’s not that casual sex is weird. You’re an adult. You know how these things work. (You do not actually know how these things work.) It’s just that casual sex with _Sollux_ is weird. 

You knew him when you were still pupating, for fuck’s sake. When you were tiny he’d call you sometimes in the middle of the day and just hold the phone against his dorsal cavity so you could hear him buzz as his lusus sang to him: low droning tones you’d play through your tinny auxiliary speakers so you could fall asleep when your own guardian was out foraging for nights on end. He was the reason you kept coding, even though you hated it. He likes sweet pastries with grubsauce, the lethally spicy kind you can hardly find anymore because mashing pepperbug larva burns your hands like crazy and only masochists even eat the stuff, and the first time you got drunk with him he told you he never kissed Aradia before she died. 

You know him too well for it not to mean anything when he’s the first person to make you come, but then it just doesn’t; he laughs and licks his lips and tells you your voice cracked, as though you couldn’t hear yourself moaning like the jelly-limbed first-timer you so obviously were. You spend the rest of the night playing _Battlegrub 3_ and eating yesterday’s rootworm noodles and it’s not even weird. It’s weird that it’s not weird. 

It’s less weird now, you guess? Once you had a chance to find a rhythm again (though he didn’t seem to break stride for a _second_ , the asshole) you got on fine pretending it didn’t kind of freak you out that your best friend had become your. What the _fuck_ is the word. Strider _just_ told you, some made-up-sounding bullshit you’re half-convinced he’s just waiting for you to use and look like a moron. 

 _Fuckbuddies_. 

 _That’s_ what the asshole said. 

Not the asshole in glasses. The other one. 

No, wait. Fuck. _You_ know who you mean. The slightly less sufferable of the two. (That’s debatable, actually. Which of them do you detest more? One of them has never dirty-talked you into ruining a pair of underwear and then _laughed_ about it, but then again the one who _has_ gives what he is not wrong in describing as the _be2t head iin two uniiver2es_ and honestly no purse-lipped hornless monkey-descended douche can compete with that.) 

Anyway giving the thing a name hardly helps now because you’ve got it all figured out. You are the quadrantmaster. It’s you. 

You’re also the fuckbuddy master. Probably. You’re not in quadrants with Sollux, any of them, at all, and have not considered it ever under any circumstances. 

Besides he pisses you off to too much to be flush and stresses you out too much to be pale and he’s too much of a comfort, though you’ll never admit it, to be black. Nope. No. Platonic fucking is all it is. Platonic, obnoxious, more-trouble-than-it’s-worth fucking. 

You must be _stupid_ or something. 

You can admit that Sollux gives great head. Not that you’ve fucked anyone else (except your moirail, that one time, sort of halfway, and you don’t acknowledge that as sex because that would have some really disturbing implications about your sanity). But god _damn_ is he a pain in the ass. 

Case in point: earlier this week, when he up and kicks you off your server in the middle of a legendary _Stargate_ campaign just so you _won’t be dii2tracted_ when he shows up in your block five minutes later, bitching about some coding shit and _deliberately_ referring to the most abstract constructions that you still don’t understand (despite your insistence to the contrary, you’re half-convinced he just makes this shit up). 

He doesn’t even register that you’ve restarted on a different server and are determinedly not getting up or responding or anything – he just lets himself in, whining the usual nasally lispy whine about the usual boring shit, and elbows you a little before he kneels between your legs. 

“Fuck’s sake.” Cold shoulder? Not working. “I’m campaigning here. Go rub your bulge on something that doesn’t have actual shit to do. Kanaya’s keeping some really lovely needlethorn succulents I’m sure you’d like.” 

“Good morning to you too, spongerot,” he says, about as cheerfully as he gets outside of mania. “Do your nub-thumbed jackassery for drooly wrigglers, it’s not like it requires a functioning thinkpan to wreck every chumpass on the beta servers anyway.” 

“Has it occurred to you that I object more to the principle of you barging in and bothering me when I’m in the middle of-” He unzips your pants. “Are you even _listening_?” 

“What, I thought you were ignoring me. Lift your bony glutes up so I can get your pants off.” 

“You blistering puke-clotted _fuck_ , I swear to god – if you levitate me I will make you _so fucking sorry-_ ” 

“Heh, you liked it well enough last time.” 

“You launched me across the fucking room!” (He caught you before you really hit anything, but damned if that didn’t kill the mood.) 

“Shut up, you liked that too.” 

You lift your bony glutes indeed when you feel a psionic spark along your back, and he gives you the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever _seen_ as he pulls your pants down. 

“You are _kidding_ me with this.” 

“Nope,” he says, and smirks, and pushes your knees apart. 

Inconsiderate fuck that he is, he doesn’t even grab you a bucket, even after you’ve abandoned the irritable façade for a more genuine fisting-hands-in-his-hair-squirming approach. You have to actually give him a shove to make him stop licking you (loathe though you are, at that point, that he stop) and then threaten getting up yourself before he’ll deign to snag it with psionics. 

“So what did we learn today,” he says smugly, positioning the bucket under you ( _fucking goddamn shitfuck_ ) and looking up at you under his lashes like a pornstar might if mutant lowbloods with attitude problems ever featured in fucking pornos. 

You try to knee him and he grins, leans in, gets his tongue against the slit of your nook and _fuck_ , okay, the noise you make is totally justified. 

“Aside from. Ah. What a petulant _shithead_ you can be about ah. Fuck. We learned that Sollux Captor is an obnoxious bulgeslut who will stop at nothing to hassle his supremely magnanimous _ssshit_ oh _fuck_.” 

There’s not much retaliation available to you at that point but to thumb his horns and let him fuck you with his tongue. You are briefly unable to decide if orgasms this good are worth dealing with his bullshit, and then you are unable to do anything but come. 

After a consciousness-obliteratingly long time he decides, by whatever mysterious alchemy is happening in his perverted pan, that if he makes you come any more you’re going to turn inside-out like an aquatic tube worm, and eases up enough for you to start coming down. Half a minute of lapping at your bulge and half a minute more of leaving hickeys on your thighs and he deems you good to fucking go. Doesn’t fuck around with the foreplay and doesn’t stick around for the afterglow. You can’t even decide if you appreciate that or think it’s conceited. 

You are a hot mess and so, honestly, is he: goddamned if he hasn’t got genetic fluid down his chin and on his fucking _shirt_. And he’s just snickering like a moron, wiping his mouth and leaning back on his heels and looking you up and down with disgusting self-satisfaction. 

“I swear to god,” you rasp out, when you can get breath again. You’re shaking like a bitch. Why do you let him _do_ this do you? (Other than the fact that you can’t even make _yourself_ come like that.) 

“Yeah, you do that a lot,” he says, and wastes no time at all in getting off the floor to straddle you. Right down to business. “Come on, gimmie a couple fingers, you owe me.” 

“I don’t owe you _shit_ ,” you say, and unbutton his pants anyway. “I owe you a punch in the bulge, you overconfident asswagon.” 

“Heh.” He hasn’t even got the decency to get shivery when you rub his bulge, just shifts his hips up with your touch and licks his lips again. 

You find yourself, pretty frequently, wishing there was an innocuous way to tell him to stop doing that. 

Fuckbuddies you may be, but you’re very sure he’d laugh his skinny ass off if you tried to do more than engage him in the occasional aggressive tongue-battle (which, you’re finding, is not all it’s chalked up to be. It’s just fucking slobbery. You want to _kiss_ him, goddamnit, and you. Are not having a fling. You’re fuckbuddies. Right). 

Sollux Captor has thin, chapped lips and an overbite. The amount of time you have spent fantasizing about tenderly macking on him is exhibit number one that you are a hopeless lunatic. 

You focus on working your fingers into him. You can be cool about this. Reason yourself out of it. Yeah. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sollux groans, in time with your own thoughts, and you want to tell him to shut up and let you be dispassionate about this but you don’t. That would be weird. You are not going to make this weird. 

“You’re gonna ruin those pants,” you say instead. He gives you a blearily exasperated look that says he was planning on ‘borrowing’ a pair of yours (again) and also that this is not really the time for laundry concerns. 

“So take them off,” he says, as though it’s even remotely that simple. 

“So get off my lap, you deranged nookweasel, it’s not rocket science.” 

“If I thought you were actually going to fuck me worth a damn I’d put the effort in,” he huffs, and when you bite his shoulder through his grossly-splattered shirt he just snickers. You don’t want to consider that you just put your mouth on something sticky with your own genetic fluid, but there you have it. The things this asshole reduces you to. 

The minute you pull your hand out of his pants he nips your ear, which is so hot you can’t complain. Besides, he gets the message quick enough, sliding out of your lap and shucking his shirt and jeans and then yanking you impatiently down onto the floor. 

You missed the bucket a couple of times, you notice, but it’s water under the crossing trestle at this point. 

You palm his swollen bulge and slide one finger into him, work a second alongside. 

The first time you did this it was weird as fuck. You can barely take _one_ , and so when he hissed in your ear _two, give me two, come on_ , you couldn’t decide whether you were more freaked out or turned on. You’ve made your mind up now, though - ten points to Vantas, division champion in unrequited attraction to pointy-elbowed psychopaths. 

He’s slick and tight and shudders when you twist your fingers just right and it’s worth it, you think, all the bullshit of negotiating this non-relationship, because you know how he likes it and damned if you’re not getting wet just giving it to him. 

You’re quickly running out of room in the bucket and you haven’t got another. 

Any serious thoughts of stopping go out the window when he starts sparking, though – that’s always your favorite part. Panting, overstimulated, too stubborn to tell you to stop, his mismatched oculars start leaking sparks like he’s blown a fuse in his pan. You’ve got a minute or so before he accidentally (‘ _accidentally’_ ) zaps you, and look at that, your bucket runneth over and your fuckbuddy curseth as he comes. 

Cleanup takes you twenty goddamn minutes. 

The useless lump that calls itself Captor passes out purring, and when you squeeze in the ‘coon with him he slaps at you sleepily. It bears a kinky resemblance to papping, leaving you no choice but to pinch him until he smacks you for real. You realize the pathetic and ridiculous nature of your slime-covered slap-fight before he does, but he’s the first to make a self-depricatingly hilarious comment, which means he gets de facto credit. 

You don’t kiss him, however much you want to. 

Instead you sink into the sopor, right up to your chin, and lay your head against his bony thorax. He scratches at the back of your neck with his short-bitten claws and purrs, a low buzzy sound you can’t replicate for all your trying. Apparently your uniquely shitty mutation knocked your rumble box into nonfunctionality, so all you can do is sigh and loop an arm around him – _I would if I could_ , you want to say, but you’ve said it a dozen times and he always just shrugs. Couldn’t care less. 

You feel weird and fragile. Sollux’s purr tapers off as he falls asleep. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and even though you’ve never had a fling, sometimes you think you’d like to.


End file.
